Winston picked his way up the lane through  dappled  light
and  shade, stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs
parted. Under the trees to the left of him the ground was misty
with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss one's skin. It  was  the
second  of  May. From somewhere deeper in the heart of the wood
came the droning of ring doves.
     He was a bit early. There had been no  difficulties  about
the  journey, and the girl was so evidently experienced that he
was  less  frightened  than  he  would  normally   have   been.
Presumably  she  could  be  trusted  to  find  a safe place. In
general you could not assume that you were much  safer  in  the
country  than  in London. There were no telescreens, of course,
but there was always the danger  of  concealed  microphones  by
which your voice might be picked up and recognized; besides, it
was  not  easy to make a journey by yourself without attracting
attention. For distances of less than 100 kilometres it was not
necessary to get your passport endorsed,  but  sometimes  there
were  patrols  hanging about the railway stations, who examined
the papers of any Party  member  they  found  there  and  asked
awkward questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the
walk  from  the  station  he had made sure by cautious backward
glances that he was not being followed. The train was  full  of
proles,  in  holiday  mood  because of the summery weather. The
wooden- seated carriage in which he  travelled  was  filled  to
overflowing  by  a  single  enormous  family.  ranging  from  a
toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going  out  to
spend  an afternoon with 'in-laws' in the country, and, as they
freely  explained  to  Winston,  to  get  hold  of   a   little
blackmarket butter.
     The  lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath
she had told him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged  between
the  bushes.  He had no watch, but it could not be fifteen yet.
The bluebells were so thick underfoot that  it  was  impossible
not  to  tread  on  them.  He knelt down and began picking some
partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague  idea  that
he  would  like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl
when they met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling
their faint sickly scent when a sound at his  back  froze  him,
the unmistakable crackle of a foot on twigs. He went on picking
bluebells.  It  was the best thing to do. It might be the girl,
or he might have been followed after all. To look round was  to
show  guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell lightly
on his shoulder.
     He looked up.  It  was  the  girl.  She  shook  her  head,
evidently  as  a  warning that he must keep silent, then parted
the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track  into
the  wood.  Obviously  she  had  been  that way before, for she
dodged the boggy bits as though  by  habit.  Winston  followed,
still  clasping  his  bunch  of  flowers. His first feeling was
relief, but as he watched the strong  slender  body  moving  in
front  of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight enough
to bring out the curve of  her  hips,  the  sense  of  his  own
inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed quite likely
that  when  she  turned  round and looked at him she would draw
back after all. The sweetness of the air and the  greenness  of
the  leaves  daunted  him. Already on the walk from the station
the May sunshine had made  him  feel  dirty  and  etiolated,  a
creature of indoors, with the sooty dust of London in the pores
of  his skin. It occurred to him that till now she had probably
never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They came to  the
fallen  tree  that  she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and
forced apart the bushes, in which there did not seem to  be  an
opening.  When Winston followed her, he found that they were in
a natural clearing, a tiny  grassy  knoll  surrounded  by  tall
saplings  that  shut  it  in  completely.  The girl stopped and
turned.
     'Here we are,' she said.
     He was facing her at several paces' distance.  As  yet  he
did not dare move nearer to her.
     'I  didn't want to say anything in the lane,' she went on,
'in case there's a mike hidden there. I don't suppose there is,
but there could be. There's always the chance of one  of  those
swine recognizing your voice. We're all right here.'
     He  still  had not the courage to approach her. 'We're all
right here?' he repeated stupidly.
     'Yes. Look at the trees.' They were small ashes, which  at
some  time  had  been cut down and had sprouted up again into a
forest of  poles,  none  of  them  thicker  than  one's  wrist.
'There's  nothing  big  enough to hide a mike in. Besides, I've
been here before.'
     They were only making conversation. He had managed to move
closer to her now. She stood before him very  upright,  with  a
smile  on  her face that looked faintly ironical, as though she
were wondering why he was so slow to  act.  The  bluebells  had
cascaded  on to the ground. They seemed to have fallen of their
own accord. He took her hand.
     'Would you believe,' he said, 'that  till  this  moment  I
didn't  know  what  colour your eyes were?' They were brown, he
noted, a rather light shade of brown, with  dark  lashes.  'Now
that  you've  seen  what I'm really like, can you still bear to
look at me?'
     'Yes, easily.'
     'I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that  I  can't
get  rid  of.  I've  got  varicose  veins.  I've got five false
teeth.'
     'I couldn't care less,' said the girl.
     The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she  was
in  his  his  arms.  At  the beginning he had no feeling except
sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained  against  his
own,  the  mass  of  dark  hair was against his face, and yes !
actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the wide
red mouth. She had clasped her arms about  his  neck,  she  was
calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He had pulled her
down on to the ground, she was utterly unresisting, he could do
what  he  liked  with  her.  But  the  truth was that he had no
physical sensation, except that of mere contact.  All  he  felt
was incredulity and pride. He was glad that this was happening,
but  he  had no physical desire. It was too soon, her youth and
prettiness had frightened him, he was too much used  to  living
without  women  --  he did not know the reason. The girl picked
herself up and pulled a bluebell  out  of  her  hair.  She  sat
against him, putting her arm round his waist.
     'Never  mind,  dear. There's no hurry. We've got the whole
afternoon. Isn't this a splendid hide-out? I found  it  when  I
got  lost  once  on  a community hike. If anyone was coming you
could hear them a hundred metres away.'
     'What is your name?' said Winston.
     'Julia. I know yours. It's Winston -- Winston Smith.'
     'How did you find that out?'
     'I expect I'm better at finding things out than  you  are,
dear.  Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I gave
you the note?'
     He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was
even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst.
     'I hated the sight of you,' he said. 'I wanted to rape you
and then  murder  you  afterwards.  Two  weeks  ago  I  thought
seriously  of  smashing your head in with a cobblestone. If you
really want to know, I imagined that you had  something  to  do
with the Thought Police.'
     The  girl  laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a
tribute to the excellence of her disguise.
     'Not the Thought Police! You didn't honestly think that?'
     'Well, perhaps not exactly that.  But  from  your  general
appearance  --  merely  because  you're  young  and  fresh  and
healthy, you understand -- I thought that probably-'
     'You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in  word  and
deed. Banners, processions, slogans, games, community hikes all
that stuff. And you thought that if I had a quarter of a chance
I'd denounce you as a thought-criminal and get you killed off?'
     'Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls are
like that, you know.'
     'It's  this  bloody thing that does it,' she said, ripping
off the scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging
it on to a bough.  Then,  as  though  touching  her  waist  had
reminded  her  of  something,  she  felt  in  the pocket of her
overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She  broke  it
in  half  and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even before he
had taken it he knew by the smell  that  it  was  very  unusual
chocolate.  It  was  dark  and shiny, and was wrapped in silver
paper. Chocolate normally  was  dullbrown  crumbly  stuff  that
tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, like the smoke of a
rubbish  fire.  But  at  some  time  or  another  he had tasted
chocolate like the piece she had given him. The first whiff  of
its  scent  had  stirred  up some memory which he could not pin
down, but which was powerful and troubling.
     'Where did you get this stuff?' he said.
     'Black market,' she said  indifferently.  'Actually  I  am
that  sort  of  girl,  to  look  at. I'm good at games. I was a
troop-leader in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a
week for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours I've spent
pasting their bloody rot all over London. I  always  carry  one
end  of a banner in the processions. I always Iook cheerful and
I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, that's what
I say. It's the only way to be safe.'
     The first fragment of chocolate had  meIted  on  Winston's
tongue.  The  taste  was  delightful.  But there was still that
memory moving round the edges of his  consciousness,  something
strongly  felt  but  not  reducible  to definite shape, like an
object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He pushed  it  away
from  him,  aware  only  that  it was the memory of some action
which he would have liked to undo but could not.
     'You are very young,' he said. 'You  are  ten  or  fifteen
years younger than I am. What could you see to attract you in a
man like me?'
     'It  was  something  in  your  face.  I thought I'd take a
chance. I'm good at spotting people who don't belong.  As  soon
as I saw you I knew you were against them.'
     Them,  it  appeared, meant the Party, and above all
the Inner Party, about whom she talked  with  an  open  jeering
hatred  which  made  Winston feel uneasy, although he knew that
they were safe here if they could be  safe  anywhere.  A  thing
that  astonished  him  about  her  was  the  coarseness  of her
language. Party members were supposed not to swear, and Winston
himself very seldom did  swear,  aloud,  at  any  rate.  Julia,
however, seemed unable to mention the Party, and especially the
Inner  Party,  without  using  the  kind  of words that you saw
chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He did not  dislike  it.  It
was  merely one symptom of her revolt against the Party and all
its ways, and somehow it seemed natural and healthy,  like  the
sneeze  of  a  horse  that  smells  bad  hay. They had left the
clearing and were wandering again through the chequered  shade,
with  their arms round each other's waists whenever it was wide
enough to walk two abreast. He  noticed  how  much  softer  her
waist  seemed  to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not
speak above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was
better to go quietly. Presently they had reached  the  edge  of
the little wood. She stopped him.
     'Don't  go  out  into  the  open.  There  might be someone
watching. We're all right if we keep behind the boughs.'
     They were standing in  the  shade  of  hazel  bushes.  The
sunlight,  filtering  through innumerable leaves, was still hot
on their faces. Winston looked out into the field  beyond,  and
underwent  a  curious, slow shock of recognition. He knew it by
sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a  footpath  wandering
across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on
the  opposite  side  the  boughs  of  the elm trees swayed just
perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves stirred faintly  in
dense  masses  like  women's hair. Surely somewhere nearby, but
out of sight, there must be a stream  with  green  pools  where
dace were swimming?
     'Isn't there a stream somewhere near here?' he whispered.
     'That's  right, there is a stream. It's at the edge of the
next field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You
can watch them lying in  the  pools  under  the  willow  trees,
waving their tails.'
     'It's the Golden Country -- almost,' he murmured.
     'The Golden Country?'
     'It's  nothing, really. A landscape I've seen sometimes in
a dream.'
     'Look!' whispered Julia.
     A thrush had alighted on a bough  not  five  metres  away,
almost  at  the  level  of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen
them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread  out  its
wings,  fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head
for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the  sun,
and  then  began  to  pour  forth  a  torrent  of  song. In the
afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling.  Winston  and
Julia  clung  together,  fascinated.  The music went on and on,
minute after minute, with astonishing  variations,  never  once
repeating  itself,  almost as though the bird were deliberately
showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes  it  stopped  for  a  few
seconds,  spread  out and resettled its wings, then swelled its
speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston  watched  it
with  a  sort  of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that
bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What  made  it
sit  at  the  edge  of  the lonely wood and pour its music into
nothingness?  He  wondered  whether  after  all  there  was   a
microphone  hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only
in low whispers, and it would not pick up what they  had  said,
but  it  would  pick up the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of
the  instrument  some  small,  beetle-like  man  was  listening
intently  -- listening to that. But by degrees the flood
of music drove all speculations out of  his  mind.  It  was  as
though  it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him
and got mixed up with the sunlight that  filtered  through  the
leaves.  He  stopped thinking and merely felt. The girl's waist
in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He pulled  her  round
so  that  they  were  breast to breast; her body seemed to melt
into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all  as  yielding  as
water. Their mouths clung together; it was quite different from
the  hard  kisses  they  had exchanged earlier. When they moved
their faces apart again both of them sighed  deeply.  The  bird
took fright and fled with a clatter of wings.
     Winston  put  his  lips  against her ear. 'Now,' he
whispered.
     'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back  to  the  hide-
out. It's safer.'
     Quickly,   with  an  occasional  crackle  of  twigs,  they
threaded their way back to the clearing. When  they  were  once
inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. They were
both  breathing  fast.  but  the smile had reappeared round the
corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an  instant,
then  felt  at  the  zipper  of  her overalls. And, yes! it was
almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as  he  had  imagined
it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she flung them aside
it  was  with  that  same  magnificent gesture by which a whole
civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body  gleamed  white
in  the  sun. But for a moment he did not look at her body; his
eyes were anchored by the freckled face with  its  faint,  bold
smile. He knelt down before her and took her hands in his
     'Have you done this before?'
     'Of  course.  Hundreds  of  times  -- well scores of times
anyway
     'With Party members.'
     'Yes, always with Party members.'
     'With members of the Inner Party?'
     'Not  with  those  swine,  no.  But  there's  plenty  that
would  if they got half a chance. They're not so holy as
they make out.'
     His heart leapt. Scores of  times  she  had  done  it:  he
wished  it had been hundreds -- thousands. Anything that hinted
at corruption always filled him with a  wild  hope.  Who  knew,
perhaps  the  Party  was  rotten under the surface, its cult of
strenuousness and selfdenial simply a sham concealing iniquity.
If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or
syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to
weaken, to undermine! He pulled her  down  so  that  they  were
kneeling face to face.
     'Listen.  The more men you've had, the more I love you. Do
you understand that?'
     'Yes, perfectly.'
     'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want  any  virtue
to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.
     'Well  then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the
bones.'
     'You like doing this? I don't mean simply me: I  mean  the
thing in itself?'
     'I adore it.'
     That  was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the
love  of  one  person  but  the  animal  instinct,  the  simple
undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the
Party  to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass, among the
fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficulty.  Presently
the rising and falling of their breasts slowed to normal speed,
and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they fell apart. The sun
seemed  to have grown hotter. They were both sleepy. He reached
out for the discarded overalls and pulled them partly over her.
Almost immediately they fell asleep and slept for about half an
hour.
     Winston woke first. He sat up  and  watched  the  freckled
face,  still  peacefully  asleep,  pillowed  on the palm of her
hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call  her  beautiful.
There  was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked closely.
The short dark hair was  extraordinarily  thick  and  soft.  It
occurred to him that he still did not know her surname or where
she lived.
     The  young,  strong  body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in
him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless  tenderness
that  he  had  felt  under the hazel tree, while the thrush was
singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the overalls  aside
and  studied  her  smooth  white  flank.  In  the  old days, he
thought, a man looked at a girl's body  and  saw  that  it  was
desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not
have  pure  love  or  pure  lust nowadays. No emotion was pure,
because everything was mixed up with  fear  and  hatred.  Their
embrace  had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow
struck against the Party. It was a political act.

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